DISCLAIMER: This story is not for the faint of heart. If you cringe easily or are weak in the stomach, stop reading now.

I was in Karachi some time ago and had to meet a cousin near Tariq Road because he was taking me to his tailor. That’s another story, though. I called him and he said he’d take another 15, which was cool because I decided to just stroll down the market, take in the city and all that.

I was hungry anyway, so I began to look for some food, which, by the way, on Tariq Road is in ample supply. It was the middle of the afternoon, and street vendors called out to me from behind their over-sized frying pans and charcoal grills to try their ware. The bun kababs 20 yards away on the sidewalk tempted me, and I didn’t resist. I got me this delicious street sandwich, along with skinny fries wrapped in newspaper, and took a seat on a nearby plastic stool to enjoy my meal. Delicious. I was enjoying the city already. I washed it down with a chilled Poke (short for Pakola) in a recycled bottle. That’s the stuff.

I glanced at my watch as I finished my meal, and figured I had time for dessert. A nearby stall selling jalebis caught my attention, and I succumbed. As I bit into the first of the six orange colored delights, my cousin arrived.

“Where the fuck did you get that?”

I nodded towards the jalebi guy.

“Dude, we can go somewhere if you’re hungry. You don’t have to…”

“I just ate. This is dessert.”

“What did you eat?”

I pointed to the bun kabab guy.

“You ate that crap?”

“Umm, yeah…”

“Man, I never eat at these places.”

“Why not?” I asked, somewhat perplexed. I found him pretentious, suddenly.

“You see that kabab guy? You see that bottle of water next to him? He’s thirsty, so he’s drinking water. Lots of it.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Well, do you see a toilet anywhere?”

He had a point. This was a street vendor with a cart. He sat beside that cart and made kababs. No public restrooms close enough to walk to. He probably pissed on the street, then continued to shake off the last bits, pull his shalwar together and walk back to his life as a kabab maker.

“There’s really no place to wash your hands,” my cousin continued, “and I’m sure as hell they don’t use hand sanitizers.”

I agreed.

“Bro, you just ate a kabab made with dick hands.”

I thought about it for a bit, but realized it didn’t really bother me. So what? It’s not like he gets any pleasure out of it. So what if I’m eating kababs made by a guy who just drained his willy. I love those fucking kababs, and the jalebis, and the gol-gappas and everything else that the streets of Karachi have to offer. Only thing is, they come with a little more meat than we know. Ignorance is bliss, I guess.